


Rise, Son of Dathomir

by UnderCoverMarsupial



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Dathomir, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), M/M, Mates, Night Brothers - Freeform, Night Sisters, Nightbrothers, Nightsisters (Star Wars), Nightsisters are great, Other, Strong Female Characters, Telepathic Bond, The Son of Dathomir, Whipping, Zabrak, get your shit together man, keeping men in line, sort of darth maul, witches being witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderCoverMarsupial/pseuds/UnderCoverMarsupial
Summary: An AU where Talzin is not killed by Palpatine at the end of of the Son of Dathomir comic but returns to Dathomir and keeps on ruling. But all is not well among the Night Sisters and their Night Brother slaves. There are rumbles of discontent. Mother Talzin has them all under an iron fist but something happens that will change everything. Oblivious to all this is Wroth, most senior of the Nightbrothers pledged to the Daughters, the ruling elite of Dathomir's Nightsisters. His witch, Zyllia, is expecting, due by the end of the year. ok- I can't write summaries. Just trust me. Its a cool AU for Dathomir.Also ALL my star wars fics include this caveat: Maul wasn't cut in half. Thats absurd. Defeated, injured, whatever, but cut in half is ridiculous.Also Bracken belongs to @darthomicron aka Leon aka That Nice Guy





	1. The Faces Around the Fire

  1. Ceremony of Sacrifice - _the faces around the fire_



 

Zyllia was worried. Wroth didn’t have to see her rubbing her swollen belly, or see the tilt of her head, or the line that appeared between her brows to know it. It was thrumming in his head across the bond they shared, making his teeth ache. More than anything he wanted to go to her, wrap her in his arms, kill whatever was worrying her. But this was not the time or the place. She was in the front, where she belonged as a Daughter of the Blood. He was in the back, where he belonged as a Nightbrother, as a slave.

 He forced his mind away. There was nothing he could do for Zyllia at the moment. The singing was growing louder, and she joined in with the other witches as the Mother approached, carrying the tiny bundle aloft, singing loudly to the dark forces that surrounded her in a green haze. The baby was crying, but its cries were lost in the roaring of the fires and the chanting of the witches. The Daughters came behind the Mother, their faces covered, leading the bound Nightbrother between them. Each held a delicate ceremonial chain, long and fine which connected to the thick silver collar around the Nightbrother’s neck.

 For Wroth, his sheer size giving him a clear line of sight, the covered faces meant nothing. He knew each and every one of the Daughters, had known them his whole life. Behind the Mother there was Mairi, that hateful cunt, cruel and cold as the stars, and beside her ferocious little Kraya, Braken’s mate. There was Varess, who loved to laugh and tease the boys in training. The one with the limp was Jevin, who had made two attempts on Zyllia’s life so far. Wroth had given her that limp the last time. For an ordinary Nightbrother, laying hands on any sister was a death sentence. But Wroth was no ordinary Nightbrother. He was born and bred to be a mate and guardian for a Daughter, to stand by her, fight for her, kill for her, obey her without exception. Zyllia walked smoothly behind Varess, singing but without much enthusiasm, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

 The chanting was winding towards its climax. Mother Talzin brought the baby down into her arms and uncovered it. It was a girl, pale and slender, but strong, roaring her displeasure at the cold and kicking her long legs. Wroth had to force himself not to smile at the sight. He kept his face still, sending his laughter along the bond to his mate instead.

  _Will our daughter be so angry?_

Zyllia’s head came up but she didn’t turn towards him. They were leading the bound Nightbrother towards the fire. _The father_ Wroth thought, and quickly shoved that thought down.

  _She will be angrier. A fury beyond all the others. If it is a girl…_ Zyllia sent. Wroth’s face remained impassive but a sudden understanding came to him. This was the source of her fear.

  _Zyllia, this is what worries you? But why? A Daughter has not given birth to a male in a thousand years!_

_Except Maul._

_Maul was the exception- he was the Son of Dathomir, beloved of the Mother. When he was born the sun went dark in the sky._

_And you are Maul’s son._

 _That is not known for certain._ Wroth was becoming increasingly uneasy. This entire line of thinking was dangerous. When Daughters birthed males both parents were killed, the witch and her damned offspring thrown onto the fire alive, to remove their taint from the bloodline.

  _Zyllia is there something you aren’t telling me?_ His instincts were going into overdrive. He fought to keep his body still, though a tremor ran across his bare shoulders, the slightest twitch of his green skin.

 But there was no time to ask further. The baby was handed to her mother, Aziva, proud as a queen by the fire. She stood naked before the flames so the entire tribe might see her birth-ravaged body. Wroth had known Aziva since she was a fat little pug-nosed girl, mean as a snake and twice as sneaky. Now she was just another long legged, flat bellied Night Sister. Or had been before her pregnancy. Now her striped tattoos were matched by the streaks of blood down her thighs, and the trails of milk streaming from her swollen breasts, shining against her loose and empty stomach.

 As she held the newest member of the tribe to her breast to nurse the witches cried out in affirmation, the cycle of their people brought full circle. Well, almost. _The father, our Wrex is a father now_. Wroth thought again, and this time he did shift, giving his head a brief rough shake to push the thought away. Bracken glanced up at him out of the corner of his eye. Wroth’s littermate raised an eyebrow in a clear question. Wroth gave another tiny shake of his head. Not now.

 A new chanting started, this one darker, harsher, calling for sacrifice. Mairi brought out the black blade for the cutting on its red cloth. The ritual maiming, dating so far back in time that even the sisters had no history of its beginning. Only the blade changed. The sword of the Beloved Son, kept in the sanctuary solely for moments like this.

 The Nightbrother, on his knees before the fire, began growling low and long. His lips were curled up in a snarl, his teeth shining wetly in the firelight. Wrex was another of their littermates, chosen by Aziva in their sixteenth year. Wrex and Aziva had five years. Five seemingly happy years. But then the signs came around and they were brought to the house of Mothers to breed until the moon turned and Aziva was with child. And now…

 Suddenly Wrex tossed his long horns in a way that Wroth remembered vividly from their days together as children. He would toss his horns whenever he was ready to charge, an obvious tell that no amount of beatings could make him stop. How many times had Wroth seen his little brother, as gold as one of the wasps in the eastern deserts, toss his horns like that? Even now, standing far from the center, watching as Wrex went to sacrifice, Wroth felt his body tense at that little gesture. Bracken did too, going so far as to come up on his toes in expectation.

 That toss of the head was what saved Zyllia’s life. Their instincts so awakened, Bracken and Wroth were both in motion before anyone else as Wrex surged to his feet, tearing the slender chains out of the hands of the nearest Daughters with a roar. In his charge he bumped Zyllia, awkward with her pregnant belly, towards the fire. Deep in the Force, Wroth reached his mate before Zyllia even drew a full breath, pivoting smoothly to put his body between her and the danger exploding around them. With a bellow of rage Wrex leapt at the nearest Daughter, shoving her over and kicking her hard in the face. Even as his body curled around Zyllia’s, Wroth heard the sickening crunch of the witch’s skull. _Mairi,_ he thought, _that was Mairi- he planned this! He knows what he is doing!_

 “Zyllia- go. Now!” He barked, pushing his mate back towards the village. A Nightbrother ordering a Daughter of the blood? She raised one perfectly arched brow at his presumption before turning as he wanted, scrambling away from the fray.

 _We will discuss this later,_ she sent to him, but he didn’t care. She could beat him up and down for this, as long as she was away. He could hear more blows and screams behind them.

 Wroth spun on his heel and ran towards where Wrex, his hands still bound, was being wrestled to the ground by the other Nightbrothers, Bracken chief among them. Mairi was clearly dead, her skull crushed almost beyond recognition. Jevin was also on the ground, but seemed alive, crying and rocking back and forth. Bracken looked up and met Wroth’s eyes and they shared a moment of perfect understanding. This was their little brother, their Wrex, who had killed a Zranax with his bare hands on their first ranging, saving the four little boys’ lives. And now this was their Wrex, roaring and bawling that he would not be killed, that he would kill them all, that he would die before he let the witches…

 Wroth cut off his brother’s bellows with a sharp strike to the temple, his fist automatically tilting to miss Wrex’s deadly little side horns. The sudden silence that fell was ragged and awful, punctuated by the screams and sobs of the witches. Bracken’s mouth was a thin line, his pain evident in every twitch of his face. Wroth, Bracken, Wrex and Zeb, the only four surviving pureblood males to meet Ravage’s exacting standards. Four litter mates, Zeb already sacrificed, Wrex today, Bracken’s mate was due any day now, and Zyllia at the next cycle. Four little boys, huddled together in a cave to keep warm. Wroth pushed that thought away.

 Mother Talzin strode up and stood over them, rage rolling off her in waves. Wroth and Bracken kept their heads bowed, their foreheads almost touching as the surviving Daughters came up and formed a circle around the Mother. The men didn’t dare move as the witches’ magick dragged their unconscious brother out from under them, lifted his limp form into the air, and without a word, threw him onto the fire.

 Wroth thought that Wrex’s screams, as his brother came to only to find himself held down in the flames by a circle of vengeful witches, would haunt him to the end of his days. He kept his head down, the only thing in his sight the hems of Mother Talzin’s robes, and the tiny puffs of dust that appeared as Bracken’s tears fell onto the ground. Wrex screamed, his shrieks rising higher and higher until they finally ended in a gurgling howl that froze Wroth’s spine and awoke something in his hearts, something dark and monstrous.

 


	2. The Cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get complicated.   
> Bracken belongs to darthomicron who's art is amazing. I will ask him if I can link it to him DA. 
> 
> Warning for some graphic depictions of injuries. I will go back and change the tags.

 “She has taken the child to the hills…”  Bracken’s voice was barely audible. Wroth leaned in, turning his good ear towards his friend. It allowed him to hear better and let him finally drag his gaze away from Bracken’s ravaged face. His left eye was nothing but a suppurating divot, oozing blood and slime. The slashes across his face were just as bad, the one by his nose swollen and grotesque with infection. His shattered mouth moved again and Wroth leaned in closer.

“Kraya. She has taken the child… to the hills. She says…” He paused with a little gasping breath. “She says… there are _others_.”

 Wroth struggled to keep his anger under control. The Dark Side of the Force sang to him, curling around his spine, spreading goose bumps down the backs of his arms. It begged to be used. Wroth kept it shoved down deep. At the first twinge the sisters would know he was there. They would sense the Force being used and know that he had snuck into Bracken’s cell. Nothing would save either of them. And then who would protect Zyllia? Wroth forced himself to breathe deep in and out through his nose until he felt calm enough to look at Bracken again.

 The tall Zabrak was hanging from a chain by his wrists, his toes barely touching the dirty floor of the cell. There was just enough light from the windows to see clearly what they had done to him. They didn’t dare kill him. That would free Kraya from the bond and they would never get her back. Instead they hurt him, every day, knowing she could feel it, knowing it would drive her mad. But she had not come back. She was gone. And Bracken would never betray her.

 ****

The first Wroth had known of the matter was when Zyllia woke screaming, sending him straight to his feet, his sword in both hands, standing over their bed before his eyes were even all the way open. Zyllia had been sitting straight up, both hands clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and shining in the starlight.

  _What is it?_ Wroth had asked, lowering his sword slowly and forcing his hearts to slow. Their home, with its wide porticoes and sliding screens, was silent, except for the trickle of water in their garden. But there were sounds from down in the village. Wroth could hear women shouting and the sounds of doors slamming.

  _Kraya has given birth!_

It was impossible. Births in their tribe were timed to the minute, doubly so for one of the Daughters. If Kraya was giving birth they would all be assembled in the village as they had been the week before. When Wrex… No. He would not think of Wrex now. But Zyllia’s huge terrified eyes were forcing those thoughts into his mind. The smell of Wrex burning, his screams…

  _She is gone._

_What do you mean?_

_She has left. She had the baby and she is gone!_

_How is this possible?_

_I don’t know!_ Zyllia’s eyes were shining with tears. Wroth could feel it; she was genuinely afraid. To see his usually capable, hard nosed and sarcastic mate reduced to fearful tears was twisting Wroth in knots. All his instincts as her guardian were urging him to act.

_I must find Bracken._ He thought, turning for the door. Zyllia’s entire demeanor changed. She scrambled to her knees and reached up to grab his shoulders.

“You will do nothing of the kind.” Instinctive obedience stilled his body. “You will stay here.” She insisted. “I will go. My sisters are calling me in any case.” She struggled to her feet, using Wroth as a brace as she stepped into her shoes. She threw a cloak over her heavy body and shot him a wry grin.

“Do as you’re told or I’ll have reason to beat you again.” She said, her chin in the air, a Daughter of the Blood down to her toes. Wroth tried and failed to keep the grin off his face, a low rumble of approval in his chest.

“Yes mistress.” he growled at her with a bow. She gave him a frank and appraising look that made his cock twitch before heading out the door, still light on her feet despite her huge belly.

 But when she got back there had been no desire, not even a shred of it as she relayed what happened. Kraya had induced the baby early and stolen away. Bracken had covered her escape and was taken into custody. Mother Talzin was questioning him already. His screams could be heard all the way up to the house where Zyllia and Wroth sat side by side on a bench in the garden.

 “When Wrex…” Zyllia began, pausing to take in a deep breath. “When Aziva had her baby, you asked if there was something I wasn’t telling you.” Wroth shifted around and sat on the ground at Zyllia’s feet, so he could be eye to eye with her. He reached across and laid a hand on either side of her belly. She placed her hands over his and drew in another breath.

 “I have been dreaming.” She continued, and Wroth felt his gut clench. A rare gift, the Force sometimes spoke to his mate directly, showing her glimpses of the future in her dreams. She had foreseen that Wroth would be her mate when the two were no more than twelve, still forbidden from even seeing each other’s faces. Without any knowledge of who he was she had marched into their camp, a trail of bowed heads in her wake, demanding to see “the big green one.” Wroth had stood gaping at her for a frozen moment before dropping to his knees and bowing his head. He had felt the scrutiny of her gaze, then heard her murmur something to Ravage before she spun on her heels and left. And now…

 “I am carrying a girl,” she paused again, closing her eyes “…and a boy.”

Death. She carried death. Death for Wroth, for her, and for both her children. Zyllia’s children. One of them kicked just then, a tiny tap against his right palm. Then again, tap, tap tap. Wroth felt rather than heard the low rumble that was building in his chest. Tap tap. Tap. Zyllia suddenly laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, hard.

 “Wroth. You, as my mate and my guardian you _will_ save me… and our children.”

The first lesson was Obedience. And really, since Bracken, since fierce little Wrex, there was no choice.

“Zyllia… Yes. Yes I will.”

 

 ********************************************

 And now Bracken too.

  _“there are others…”_

 How could this be? As Wroth went about his day he noticed it everywhere. Covert glances, grim faces, conversations stopped when he walked by, only to resume after he had passed. A newly matched pair, untangling from their embrace for a moment- the boy pushed his witch behind him with a low growl as Wroth came upon them. Something was happening. It was Ravage, old and battered, privileged to live his life out in quiet, un-mated peace, who brought Wroth into the story.

“What do you expect, boy?” he had barked at his old pupil, though the “boy” in question towered over him, a Nightbrother at the peak of his power, leader of his men, bonded to a Daughter of the Blood.

“Still a boy.” Ravage sneered, reading his thoughts as easily as always. “You are the last of your litter, Wroth.”

“No. Bracken lives.” Wroth murmured, gazing down at the village from where they sat on Ravage’s small porch. He was absently rubbing one of his fore horns on the post, the spot shiny from all the times Wroth had sought his old teacher’s advice.

“For now. The witches will finish with him soon enough. Not since Talzin was almost killed by the Sith has the tribe been in such turmoil!” Ravage cried in his harsh old voice.

“Maul saved her…” Wroth continued. His mind was working during all this, putting all the small pieces of the puzzle together. He could sense a decision coming, a course of action guided by the Force. He just needed a last piece to fall into place and he could act.

“Maul, yes. Beloved Son of Dathomir…” Ravage spat on the dirt. “ _That_ for the Beloved Son! If he had let Dooku kill Talzin, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess!” Wroth interrupted his thoughts to turn and stare incredulously at the old man. Ravage snorted.

“Oh wipe that look off your face, boy! What will the witches do? Kill me? Bah! I’m not afraid of death. _Yes_ , I say, Maul should have _let Talzin die_.”

Wroth turned back towards the village again, letting his mind spin free. _There are others._

“Come on, Wroth. You are so close.” Ravage said quietly, coming to his pupil’s side.

“How many?” Wroth asked.

“Loyal? Or afraid?”

“How many loyal to Talzin?” these questions were so dangerous Wroth didn’t even meet Ravage’s eyes. The Force was thrumming around him. Even Ravage, with few force abilities of his own, could feel it.

“Ten witches, no more.”

“Nine now. Mairi is dead.”  
“Ah yes. Wrex did us all a kindness there. What of your Zyllia?”

Wroth rubbed his hand across his eyes, suddenly tired and aching. The secret burned in him. On impulse he decided to throw caution to the wind. Ravage was someone he could trust.

“She is carrying twins.” He said. Ravage’s eyes widened. Twins were rare and auspicious in their tribe. Wroth cleared his throat. “She says one is a boy.”

There was a long silence. Wroth kept his eyes out on the village, sleepy in the hot sun. Finally, Ravage sighed.

“Nine witches then.” Wroth was grateful Ravage left it at that. “Nine witches, and maybe twice that many Nightbrothers.” The old warrior said.

“Will they submit?”

“Will you force them?”

“If I must.”

“Then yes. You are the oldest, and last of your litter, and your witch is highest now… they will submit.”

 

 


	3. The Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's running out of time and he needs to get his head straight. Politics is really NOT his strong suit.
> 
> warning for a witch beating the tail off her nightbrother




The cycle changed inexorably, the moons shifting from waxing to waning, and Zyllia could barely walk to the village without help. Wroth found himself circling her, growling at anyone who came near. Even though he had seen it over and over again, it still stunned him how his instincts consumed his thinking. He had been bred for one purpose and that purpose was reaching its climax now. He found himself unable to leave Zyllia’s side, continuously underfoot.

 It would have been amusing. They had certainly laughed at Zeb and Wrex when their times came. It had been a way of showing that even though their days together were numbered, they were still the same snarling little pups that Ravage would find sleeping piled together behind the training barn, their faces sticky from stolen sweets. But there was no one to laugh at him now. Zeb and Wrex were dead, and Bracken had been cut down but left to rot in his cell, said to be dying. Wroth was the last of his litter.

 He had no time for this! No time to think of Zeb or Wrex, no time for his own throbbing head and the instincts that drove him to guardguardguard his mate at all hours. He needed to decide who to trust, how to avoid Talzin while he planned. He needed Zyllia to be _away_ already, but couldn’t bear to have her out of his sight. And as every day got worse, it was another day he needed and didn’t have, another day closer to the birth ceremony. Fifteen more days to go.

 After the madness of Wrex, and Kraya’s betrayal, the witches were treating the next birth as the chance to re-establish control. Mother Talzin was the only person who saw Zyllia as much as Wroth did. They sat for hour over their tea, Talzin lecturing her on her new role as eldest for hours. Zyllia, for her part, held up well under the scrutiny, playing the part with cool detachment. Wroth tried to take advantage of the Mother’s distraction and go feel out some of his brothers. But he would find himself turning for home after an hour or so, appearing at Zyllia’s shoulder. Mother Talzin’s obvious amusement at his behavior made him grind his teeth in rage and frustration.

 Finally, Zyllia had had enough. She dragged Wroth off by the horn and beat him bloody in front of Talzin and half the remaining Daughters. She shackled his wrists to the post herself, biting him hard on the ribs before jerking the chain that hauled him up onto his toes. Mother Talzin had cackled with glee when the first blow fell, forcing a hoarse bark of pain out from Wroth’s throat. It was the hardest Zyllia had struck him in the seven years of their bond.

  _Stop this! We don’t have time for it and I! Wont! Have! It!_ She had all but shouted in his mind, her fury at his inability to function lending strength to her arm. _If you don’t stop this and find a way to save me and my children, I will find a male who will._ She had snarled, forcing out another grunt of pain from Wroth as he scrabbled for purchase against the bloody tiles. Those words, as much as the blows, finally cleared his head.

 In the end his own wits and his position in the tribe made up for his lack of time. He was the largest of the bonded males, the strongest, and his witch stood highest under the Mother now that Mairi was dead. _Thank you Wrex old friend._ Wroth thought, not for the first time, as he forced the other males into line. He listened to his instincts and chose his allies carefully. Ravage had suggested some names and Wroth approached them, as well as some names of his own. He knew his brothers. Some, he simply sent away. It was his prerogative to send lower ranking males on hunts, or to raid other tribes. His rank and his mental state, evidenced by his bloody back and short temper, sent them scattering to do what he told them.

 “When will you send her?” Ravage asked, eyeing his big angry pupil cautiously. Wroth was moodily rubbing his front horns against the post again, working out the stages of his plan in his mind. There was something he needed, something he was missing.

“I don’t know yet. Aziva wants to go too, but the babe is too small and Aziva is still recovering.”

 “Sometimes I still see her as that fat little thing… always spying on the boys.” Ravage said with a laugh. A tired smile crossed Wroth’s face. Sneaky little Aziva, always informing on them.

 “She loved Wrex I think.” Wroth said thoughtfully.

“Bah- don’t be a fool, boy. The witches don’t love.” Ravage countered. Wroth said nothing. Ravage was un-bonded, couldn’t know the intensity of the experience. He thought Zyllia might love him. Maybe. He didn’t say this to Ravage though, didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings.

 For the younger bonded males, Wroth needed an ally. They were too far below him for him to be seen with them publicly. He walked across the market square, eyeing the few he saw. Suddenly he spotted the boy who had protected his witch from Wroth the day he made his decision. Trusting the signs that the Force had shown him, he turned to follow them.

  _Such a fierce little thing_ … Wroth thought as he cornered the pair on a side street. They both wore the same cautious expression. The boy was panting lightly, his teeth bared, torn between protecting his witch and obeying his much older brother. He was a pale orange color and his horns were scattered only across his forehead, short but sharp.

“Easy, be easy.” Wroth said quietly, holding both his hands up. He dropped into a squat and looked straight at the little witch.

“Sister, may I address you and your mate?” he kept his tone deferential, always aware that this fifteen-year-old girl could kill him and be completely within her rights. Zyllia would flay her for it, true; but that was just between them. Any witch in the tribe could send him on his way or take out his eye, if it so pleased her. The highest ranking Nightbrother of Dathomir was still no more than a slave.

The girl raised her chin and nodded, mustering as much dignity as she could. She laid a pale hand on her mate’s shoulder. The boy calmed, wiping his hands on his tunic and looking expectantly at Wroth.

“What is your name boy?”

“Stricken”

“And you, sister?”

“Nava.”

“Nava and Stricken, if things were to… change.” Wroth glanced behind him, but the street was clear. He dropped his voice anyway. “If you could keep your bond, no matter how long or how many young you bore… Would you be happier?”

The two shared a stunned glace but no more. Nava stepped in close to Wroth, her small fists clenched.

“We would. I will not put my Stricken to sacrifice. I will _not_.” This last came out in a fierce hiss, and a flash of green crossed her eyes. Wroth managed not to smile. Maybe the witches could love after all. After that it was easy. Nava and Stricken would handle the younger pairs. And they would be close when he sent Zyllia away.

**** 

“Can you provoke Jevin?” He asked Zyllia that evening as they ate. She snorted with laughter, waving the servants out of the room so they could be private.

“Without even trying. Why?”

“I mean **really** provoke her.” He poured her a glass of wine and waited.

“Ah.” She shot him a hard glare, her fork paused halfway to her mouth.

“Don’t be a fool, Wroth. You are about to be sacrificed anyway- do you think they would let you live if you killed a Daughter now? After Mairi?”

“I need her gone. And her new mate…”

Zyllia regarded Wroth for a time, swirling her drink. He could see the wheels turning in her mind. Jevin had always hated Zyllia, but Zyllia had never acknowledged her rival, except to protect Wroth when he broke Jevin’s leg on her behalf.

“Leave Jevin to me.” She said, her teeth glowing red in the setting sun.

Jevin and her new mate, a short horned twenty-year-old as stupid as he was vicious, were entering the sanctuary when Zyllia struck. Wroth didn’t even see what happened but suddenly Zyllia fell to the ground with a cry of pain. Wroth was still turning when Zyllia flung out a hand and a bolt of green fire engulfed Jevin and her mate, turning them instantly to ash. The flames burned so hot, the sand around the pair melted into a perfect circle of molten glass. Wroth had not even had time to draw his sword.

There was a moment of absolute silence before all hell broke loose. Other witches were crying out in dismay, their Zabrak males hovering and watchful at their shoulders. Wroth helped Zyllia up, a rumbling purr in his chest as he felt her over for injuries. Her face never lost its cool dignity. She held his eyes for a moment and he had to stifle a grin.

_You take my breath sometimes, Zyllia_. He conveyed his pride over their bond. She allowed a tiny smile to touch the corner of her lips and squeezed his wrist where the others couldn’t see.

Talzin and two of the daughters emerged from the sanctuary at the pandemonium, only to be met by a babbling crowd, all making it clear that Jevin had finally pushed her sister too far. Wroth was surprised at the eagerness of the witnesses. Jevin had been hated by more than just the brothers it seemed. Zyllia met Talzin’s enquiries with icy rage, sure of her rights and the traditions that bound their sisterhood. Wroth kept silent though Talzin eyed him from time to time. The witches returned to the sanctuary and Wroth left them to it. He watched from outside as the tea was served and the daughters settled to argue amongst themselves. Eight, now. And ten more days.

The next morning Wroth was on the training ground, leading some of the younger males in weapons training when he spotted someone coming up the road at a flat run. A little witch, no more than seven, came sprinting across the yard towards him, stopping everyone in their tracks. She slid to a halt in front of Wroth who bowed to her with a puzzled smile.

 “Nightbrother, you must go to the sanctuary! Your mate has come to the birthing bed!”

 Wroth stood frozen to the spot, his mouth open and his hearts pounding in his chest. It was too soon! He wasn’t ready. How could this be happening? His eyes searched the men around him and landed on Ravage. The old warrior was staring at him, a hard, triumphant light in his eyes. The truth flashed in Wroth’s mind, crystalline and agonized. The constant visits from Talzin, Aziva and her pleas for rescue, Ravage’s suggestions on who to keep and who to send away… the tea. The fucking tea.

 Talzin knew about the boy. She had known for weeks. Ravage had betrayed them.


	4. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter sorry! And it may need a bit of editing too.  
> We left the frozen moment of Wroth, the tiny messenger witch, and Ravage in the training yard.  
> And Now...

 As he ran, Wroth lived two lives. The first was his own, his hearts thrumming, the pounding of his boots down the dirt path to the village. His bloody sword in his fist as he cursed himself for a fool.

 The second life was through the bond with his mate. Zyllia was afraid and in pain. She wanted to fight but all of her will was being burned down into the needs of her body- the growing urgency in the deepest parts of her mind to push push push. She needed him, wanted him by her as she never had before. Every cry of pain, every flash of fear as Talzin’s triumphant chanting rose and fell, drove Wroth faster.

  

 “Why?” was all he had said, his eyes locked with Ravage’s. His rage at the betrayal had burst out of him like a shockwave, sending the sand of the yard flying and knocking everyone around him flat on their backs. All but the tiny witch who had surged the wave around herself with a flick of her delicate wrist, creating a little eddy in the blowing sand.

 Before Ravage had even lifted his head Wroth was on him, his huge hands crushing his teacher’s throat. He had been shouting Whywhywhywhywhywhy- shaking Ravage like a dog shaking a rat.  He let go of Ravage’s throat long enough to draw his sword. The older man’s eyes were unfocused and his ears were bleeding from the crush of the Force. But faced with Wroth’s snarling teeth he had answered all the same.

“Talzin. She promised me…” He drew a long hitching breath. “She promised me… Aziva. Aziva would choose me next.”

  _Oh Wrex, oh my poor brother._ Wroth thought, his fury spiraling up out of control. He barely noticed slashing Ravage’s throat.

  _The witches don’t love._

_Fool! Fool! Fool!_

 

Now Wroth could see the sanctuary ahead. He could hear the chanting inside. They would be below, in the sanctum of the Mother, through the shrine to the Beloved Son. Wroth was suddenly aware of the crowd filling the square. There were Nightbrothers guarding the door, looking nervously around them as more and more people came to the square. The tribe was silent, Zyllia’s hoarse screams clearly audible over the chanting of the Daughters inside. The screams were like a file on Wroth’s nerves, making his teeth chatter with the need to be by her side.

He pushed his way forward but as soon as the people saw it was him they cleared a path for him. He caught a flash of Nava’s face, Stricken by her side, his jaw set and determined. He couldn’t think, every part of his being pushing him to his mate. But Nava took one look at his face and nodded, knew what to do. Her own heritage, an unbroken line of warrior witches going back thousands of years was suddenly clear on her face. She turned and began to speak to some of the other younger witches. It was a blur to Wroth and he shoved by.

 Wroth lunged forward at the brothers guarding the door. Two were Ravage’s and Wroth didn’t hesitate, crushing one’s skull with spinning kick while slashing at the other with his sword. The brother managed to parry briefly with his spear but only once before Wroth cut him throat to navel, feeling the grate and tug of the boy’s spine and he tried to yank his blade free. Abandoning it, he turned to the others with a snarl, his lips curling up showing his teeth.  They bowed their heads in submission and he pushed past them into the sanctuary. He wiped absently at the blood on his face as he jogged forward, through the narthex and down the central aisle towards the stairs to the lower level. The stairs led down from the shrine of the Beloved Son and no male Zabrak had ever gone down them. They had all looked of course, filing past Maul’s tomb on the Solstice when the little boys were brought forward for their tattoos, then again when they were declared ready to be chosen.

 Wroth skidded to a halt at the foot of Maul’s statue. Despite the urgency driving him on he laid a hand on the tomb beneath it and looked up at the most famous Nightbrother of all. Maul's face was raised to the stars, as it had been in life. The carver had clearly known the Sith Lord well, 

 _Father,_ he thought, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say. But he felt the Force calling him despite that, despite all his doubts.

  _TAKE WHAT IS YOURS_. The voice was soft, the accent foreign to him, the command absolute. There was no denying the authority in that voice. Wroth looked up again at Maul’s statue, the stone face frozen in a snarl, one hand outstretched and in the other…

 In the other was a sword.

 The Force howled in affirmation as Wroth understood. He leapt forward again, flinging out his own hand, summoning Maul’s blade, the darksaber of the Beloved Son, of the Sith Lord, of his Father, off of its pedestal. It roared to life in his hand and Wroth sprinted down the stairs towards the sound of chanting and Zyllia’s screams.

 


End file.
